A Pirate's Life for Me
by Gamblers Choice
Summary: He tells himself its the observatory, it is fame and fortune that matters, but she muddies his thoughts. She changes them. Together Edward Kenway and Captain Kidd hunt down the observatory, but along the way relationships are tested. Edward finds that there are things much more precious than gold, and Kidd learns that not all secrets must be kept that way. They learn what matters
1. Chapter 1

Hey Guys!

First off i'm so sorry that this was like, 2 days later then i promised to post! My plan was to use the hotel's internet (i was at a horse show this weekend) to get online and post it... and the hotel is all like "lolz! that's cute, yah our wifi is broken." -.-

THANKS TO JMV1997 for being my quartermaster!

Thank you to -

JohnKelsper

noble117

tombraidergirl

zer0point0ne

Jlovesallfandoms

razorbackmike

Toxic-Plague13

and JMV1997

For reviewing my teaser! It helped me so much!

Anyway, here is the first chapter of A Pirate's Life for Me!

* * *

Sunday, November 3 1709. London England, Great Britain

"_Of all the money that e'er I had, I spent it in good company, _

_And of all the harm that e'er I've done, alas it was to none but me…"_

With large, brown eyes a young girl, skinny, dressed in tattered rags, marred by scrapes, and with hair cut short so that she may seem a boy, watched the storm rage outside through the cracks in the walls of the shanty that she called home. She watched the lighting, blue and white and sizzling with power, light up the sky for just a moment, before it all went dark again. This storm was bad, the worst she'd ever seen, and as she watched it terrorize the cobbled English filth beyond her door she hoped that just maybe it would wash away all the ships, so that she might not have to do the work of ten men on sea licked decks the next day. So that she might be able to do as she pleased, perhaps even be a girl again, instead of toil in the cold wetness like a slave under the stony eyes of the old British captain. She had just gotten the job today, on a stroke of luck at that, but she was now a cabin boy on _The Lions Pride_, and maybe now they would have enough money to eat every day for a week straight. It would be bitterly cold outside, and she'd be lucky to come back home to her shanty with all ten fingers and toes intact – Lord knows most weren't that lucky. She knew that it would be cold, but she also knew that here, now, in the arms of her mother she was warm and safe.

_"And all I've done for want of wit, to memory now I can't recall, _

_So fill to me the parting glass…"_

Mary sat still, swaddled in the warmth and comfort of her mother's body as she listened for the next line to the melody that her mother had sung since before she could remember.

It never came.

Suddenly she was pushed gently from her mother's lap onto the soggy straw floor. Lightning cracked in the sky again, and for a moment it lit up the form of her mother, doubled over and coughing harshly into a tattered sleeve. Mary's young heart started pounding, and something like fear twisted in her gut as she glimpsed the morbid red spots on her mothers sleeve in the last bits of blue light.

Frightened, she sidled up to her mother, and tried to find the familiar glinting hazel eyes in the darkness of the storm. She couldn't, they were too dark, and the haze of exhaustion had clouded out the sparkle in her mother's eyes."Mum?" she called, her childish voice tinted with fear as she did.

"Wha' is it, Kidd?" Her mother's voice came, soothing and warm, but like a blanket that was too short. There was something wrong, terribly wrong with the only person who had never left her alone. "The way you is shiverin' and such ah'd think you was scared of the thunder." Her mother chuckled, but the sound was pained and hollow, and did nothing more to comfort her than the gnawing of the rats on the foot of the bed.

"Ah'm not scared of the thunder Mum." She huffed, and crossed her arms like an indignant child. Although, as she found it harder and harder to remember, she was still a child only ten years of age. It was clear her mother wasn't going to answer any questions tonight, so Mary decided to play along and pretend everything was all right. For now.

"Well then. Ou' with it Kidd." Her mother said, and nudged her small, scrawny little child body. She winced slightly as her mother's elbow jostled her bruised ribs, and bit her tongue so she wouldn't whimper. She had been caught in the rigging while docking a ship that day because one of the mates didn't know how to tie a knot for shit. It had pulled her right into one of the metal ties, and she now had an ugly purple bruise blooming on her side as a souvenir of her first day as a cabin boy.

"Uh, d'ya think…" she started, realizing that her unspoken question was now off limits.

"Yes?"

Mary gulped, "Uh, d'ya think we could have Cod for Christmas this year? Like… Like that year when Mark brought some home?" It was a poor cover up, and a low blow mentioning her brother's name, but it did the job.

Her mother smiled at her through the darkness with red painted lips, and Mary was reminded of why she was dressed as a boy every day and worked as a man. It seemed that in this world, a woman's only option besides marriage was the tavern wench or common whore, and that was no kind of life to live. "Sure Kidd." Her mother said, and mussed her short, boyish hair, before leaning back against their rotting, wooden walls and heaving a strained breath. "Mary?" her mother suddenly called. She sat straight up, startled by the name she almost never heard. Her mother almost always called her by her pet name '_Kidd_', and everyone else called her either '_Boy_' or a slough of other unsightly names. Save for that fisherman by the docks, he called her James.

"Yah Mum?" She answered, unsure. The last time her mother had called her Mary, was at her brother's funeral nearly six years beforehand. Mary. To her the name seemed like an omen of death, a sort of bitter irony for her. It was like the crow that had watched her behind beady midnight eyes when she placed her flower, a single ebony rose upon her brothers coffin.

Her mother leaned down, and kissed her softly on her dirty, salt-streaked forehead with her painted lips. "Remember Mary, no matta' where yah' go, no matta' what happens, I'll always be with ya. A'right?" Mary nodded, startled by her mothers words, and worried as the hand of fear that gripped her heart closed even tighter. Why did it seem like some sort of promise? Why did it sound so much like a goodbye? She had heard enough of those to know what they sounded like.

A warm hand pressed against her head, and as her mother pulled her to rest against her bosom Mary found it safe to sigh and stop fighting for a change. With fear's grip vanquished by her mothers love, she fell asleep to the soft, sweet melody of her mother's voice.

_"So fill to me the parting glass. Goodnight and joy be with you all."_

When Mary woke the next morning, the rain had stopped, but there was an unearthly chill that still hung about her like the fog that hung about England. It prickled at her heart with spiny, ice-cold teeth, clung to her lungs and rode out on every breath she took, yet it always came back to settle in her bones. She shivered, and leaned into her mother seeking warmth.

There was none. 

She was cold and hard like the pitiless cobble that lined the better streets of England. Mary breathed out an icy cloud, watched as it slowly drifted away, and recognized the chill. It was the chill of death.

Outside the door, a crow, large and keen with glossy feathers like ebony, cawed into the cold frozen morning.

"Kidd!"

* * *

Authors Note:

So, Did you guys like it? This is -again- just the flashback part from the teaser, JMV1997 my quartermaster suggested that i break them up and i did! So again, this is (for the most part) an AU story that will have two alternative endings, on of which i might continue on for a sequel!

Again, in case anyone didnt catch it Mary is 10 in this flashback! I will have an alternate timeline from the cannon.

PLEASE READ/REVIW/FOLLOW!

-Gamblers Choice


	2. Chapter 2

Hey Guys!

So here is chapter 2 of "A Pirate's Life for Me" The next chapter might be a bit slower coming, because i'm trying to work on some fanart at the same time, but i will try my best! (also i dont work ahead because the 1 TIME i tried that, my entire computer died when i was bout 5 chapters in... most depressing moment of my life)

I also apologize for any spelling errors, if anyone wants to BETA for me just shoot me a message!

Thank you to JMV1997 for being my quartermaster, and to razorbackmike for being the first to review this story!

* * *

"Captain Kidd! Ser!"

Mary, her knife already in hand, shot to her feet as she prepared to face the intruder. Little droplets of sweat trickled down her pulsing temple as she instinctively fought to steady herself against the rolling floor beneath her. The boat rocked harshly once, and in an instant her knees buckled sending her bandaged shoulder straight into the groaning walls of _The_ _Jackdaw's_ cabin.

"Shit!" She hissed and immediately dropped the knife in favor of grabbing her wounded shoulder. It felt like it was on fire, like she could still feel the burning bite of the bullet as if it were tearing its way through her own sea-wizened flesh. She had been shot before; no doubt probably more than her fair share of times, but never in such a place as her shoulder. It was always the leg, or the arm; perhaps the scariest time had been when a bullet licked the back of her neck with its venomous tongue. Even then though, the pain could not compare to this, and Mary decided that people did not give shoulders enough credit. Again a flash of pain rocketed through her body, and as her spine quivered she bit her tongue so that she wouldn't moan with pain. Weakness would do her good only as long as she wished to be dead, for the sea was a cruel and merciless lady, but Mary had no intentions of visiting her stony depths. Not yet.

Despite the pain of her shoulder, Mary recognized the singsong gurgle of rum as it was poured into a glass, and out of habit like how a child might reach for its mothers teat, she reached out with her injured arm, accepting the cup and downing it's contents in one hurried gulp.

"'M sorry about that cap'in Kidd." A voice came, and Mary opened her eyes to see Adéwalé towering before her like some great dark deity of the sea. He stooped slightly, and with a chuckle picked up her knife before handing it to her in exchange for the empty cup. "Ah just wanted to let you know that we 'av docked at port. The men are unloading the cargo now."

Mary sighed, whether out of relief or exhaustion she couldn't tell, and pocketed the old knife. "Ah'm hopin' that this is Iguana Island we is talkin' about Adéwalé. Would be a right shame if it wasn't."

The dark man chuckled, a sound even more rare and exotic in her company than the white leopard, and nodded his head towards the window. "See for yourself cap'in." She shifted her weary, but keen almond gaze out the window and sure enough, just beyond the glass sat the wooden decks and waving fronds of Iguana Island waiting for it's captain to come home.

Home. The thought of it almost made her laugh, for Captain James Kidd had never found a home better than the deck of his ship as it sailed out on untamed surf.

She heaved a sigh, for the pondering of insignificant things like home had never served her well. Her head dropped a bit and she mumbled, "Thank god." Before sinking back down into the cushioned seat she had called her bed for the past few days. Yet, as soon as she had sat down the groan of the wood under her weight, and the pain in her arse reminded her why she had been making due with a chair when there was a perfectly good captains hammock with her name on it back in _The Sea Crow_.

_Captain Edward Kenway_. She thought, before leaning over and trying to see if there was some way to check up on the blond captain without having to get up. _Captain of the pain in my ass, I'll say that._

Again Adéwalé chuckled, and she didn't know where to smirk or be insulted. Socializing wasn't really her thing. _Although._ She thought, absentmindedly shifting from the cushions of her chair. _I might have chuckled too if I'd just watched a first class assassin flounder around in their chair like some dying fish. _

"'M afraid you're going to 'ave to get up eventually Cap'in, and ah suppose now is as good a time as eva' eh?" He smirked just a little before nodding his head towards the cabin's door. "The crew might need o' bit o' settlin' down eh?"

She, in a Kidd-like fashion, had very nearly asked him why he – the quartermaster of the Jackdaw – couldn't go settle the crew himself. Luckily the rum hadn't loosened her tongue enough and she caught herself before she could insult him, before she realized how pitifully similar Adéwalé's situation was to her own. Much like herself, Adéwalé was snubbed, denied the rights that he had fought just as hard as any fair-skinned man to achieve. Denied them even in this land of Jackdaw where his chances were best, where he knew the names of all citizens and worked alongside them. She at the very least was a little better off; after all even though she was a girl she still captained her own ship. In a bitter, ironic twist the only redeeming quality of her own unjust situation was that it was easier to hide tits than the color of your skin.

Mary smirked lightly, the bitter taste of indignation clung to the edges of her raw, cracking lips as she pushed herself up to meet the Jackdaw's quartermaster. She had, daresay bonded with the man a bit during their travel back to port. He had kept her company when he wasn't manning the decks, had brought her rum to ease the pain, and at one point had asked, earnestly of course, about the Assassins – how he knew about their secret organization she dared not wonder – and so she told him what was safe to tell, what it was like, their mission, what the creed was all about. Adéwalé would make a fine assassin; she could see it in his glassy black eyes and hear it in bottom of his rumbling voice. Yet even now though he knew of the hidden blades that lie beneath the sleeves of her captain's coat, he still did not know all her secrets. No one man really did, yet belatedly she realized that there were only two men in all the seven seas that at the very least knew both of James Kidd's most treasured secrets, and one of them was currently out cold in the bed next to her.

Mary turned and faced the large dark man, "A'right Adéwalé." She said before clapping him on the arm. "I'll have em' scurrying for cover like wet rats before ah'm through with em', you'll see."

He nodded, "Ah'n you Cap'in?" he asked, his dark deep eyes staring right at hers, a question hidden in their depths. His deep black eyes settled on her wounded shoulder. "How's that shoulder Cap'in? It looked to me like one nasty bullet."

Mary grimaced, "It was a British bullet, o' course it was nasty" she bit out with a kind of bitterness she had not heard in years. It startled her, how suddenly her past had found its way into the present again. Ah Tabai trained her well and her emotions had been under heavy lock and key ever since she had become an assassin. This little…slip was unacceptable and had her mentor been here to witness it she'd surely have been punished. Mary shook her head, a sour chuckle on the end of her breath. "Don' you worry about me Adé." She said before nodding towards the heavy wooden doors that led top deck. "Why don'cha go get yourself some rum aye'? A man like yourself deserves some for helpin' me haul Kenway's sorry arse back 'ere."

Adéwalé laughed, deep and full and for a fleeting moment Mary envied his ability to let go even after all that he'd been through. "Sure thing Cap'in, sure thing." He turned and Mary followed him out the dense oaken doors. Upon her first steps top deck she was greeted by the harsh and burning Caribbean sun, so strong that she had to shield her eyes with her uninjured arm before she could look around the island.

Other than a new shoddy looking general store, bustling tavern, shady whorehouse, and a few more drunken sailors milling about the beach, nothing much had changed about the island she and Kenway had conquered just mere months ago. The breeze was still cool, the shallows still streaked with sandbars, crabs still scuttled about with quick hurried steps at low tide, and the old plantation house still stood white and grand upon its sunny perch where it watched the ships sail in and out of port.

She nearly smiled. In a world where everything and anything seemed to be changing it was good to be greeted with familiarity from time to time.

Suddenly a deckhand, stuttering and obviously well on his way to a drunken stupor stumbled up to her, while his supposedly sea hardened mates chittered and looked on from what they deemed a safe distance._ Good_. She thought. It pleased her to know that even on another ship, her reputation was just as fierce as it was on her own brig. It also brought her some margin of satisfaction, at times maybe a bit too much, to see full-grown men bicker and fight over who was to be the unfortunate soul that had to approach her. It was clear that they were like most seamen, made flighty in her presence by one obscene story or another passed from head to head on rum scented breath in a bar. The tales these men conjured up were enough to make others shiver in the presence of a young lad, seemingly just beyond his years of puberty, and Mary knew it never hurt to play along with their perceptions.

To them, Captain James Kidd was a young, sly, pirate who – in some variations she had heard- could magic himself around the Caribbean in his flying ship, while others made her out as some sort of super pirate who could singlehandedly take down whole royal fleets at once. _Although._ She thought, smiling to herself. _I've only m'self to blame for that one_. Mary herself had spread that last one, planted it in the ear of a mousy, loose-lipped bar tender in Nassau, but only because it was true.

"Uh, uhm Cap'in-" the man, who looked about ready to bolt any moment blubbered out.

Mary grinned, her smile thin, flinty, and whispering of evil, before her good arm shot out and snatched one of many knives off of her waist. In a flash it was soaring right past the poor saps head, and buried hilt deep in the main mast of the _Jackdaw_. She got right up in front of him, and despite the three or four inches he had on her own height, she stared him down. "Well, spit it ou'! C'mon!" She barked, and her fiery umber eyes dared the shivering mate to try something.

He sputtered, and out of habit his hands twitched toward the pistol at his hip. "Ah, Cap'in!" His started, his weak, watery grey eyes danced back and forth between her forehead and the deck. "The boys an I was wonderin' if… Uhm, if we might-"

Quick as a weasel, her hand darted out and snatched the pistol from his belt before she slipped it in her own holster. "Jesus! If yah slobberin' dogs can't even say a simple word, then get the bloody hell off deck!" She shouted, and gave the man a good shove with her uninjured shoulder before she pinned the rest of the crew under a fiery gaze. "Go on! The lot o' yah! And don' come back until you've all found yer tongues again aye!"

Mary snickered as she watched the Jackdaw's crew scramble amongst themselves in a mad frenzy to get away from her. She grabbed her knife from the mast, and sheathed it before looking out again, the dying clatter of the drunken crew and squabbling gulls in her ear. Her eyes drifted over the scenery, and eventually landed on her own ship, _The Sea Crow_. It was a bit smaller than the Jackdaw, but only just, and what it lacked in size the ship made up for in power and speed. Sometimes Mary liked to think that if the two were ever put to the test, bird for bird, that her _Sea Crow_ would blow the _Jackdaw_ to smithereens before it even had a chance to open fire. After all, a jackdaw was nothing more than a lesser cousin of the crow, but _The Jackdaw_ was nothing less than an old British schooner.

A caw came from overhead and Mary glanced up to see a large crow, black and sleek and shiny, looking down on her through beady midnight eyes. She nearly smiled. "There you are, you sneaky ol' crow." She called, matching the bird's gaze with a hand oh her cocked hip. "I was wonderin' where you'd gone off to. Can't 'ave a ship named _the sea crow_ without the crow now can I? Ah would look right stupid now wouldn' I?" The bird cawed at her once more, and dropped from the riggings with a _whoosh_ before sailing past her head and over the frothing waves of the bay. Mary watched it go until it was just a black spec on a horizon where the blue sky met an even bluer sea, then turned around and walked back inside the cabin.

She grabbed a lonely looking wooden chair and pulled it over to the _Jackdaw's_ captain as he slept off the remains of his fever. His tangled blond hair, streaked with dirt and sweat and sea like a captain's hair should be, was splayed out around his head on the musty pillow. His forehead was beaded with small drops of sweat, despite the fact that his fever and forehead creases had both broken a few days ago – much to her relief. A man could lose whole limbs to cannon fire and still live far past his prime, but should he happen to come down with a fever, his shipmates would consider him as good as dead. He was looking a bit scruffy, dark blond hairs prickled up around his jaw like so many untrimmed weeds and Mary tried to imagine when it was he'd last shaved. She was betting around when Nassau fell.

Her shoulder suddenly prickled with pain, and Mary cursed softly before grabbing at it through yellowed bandages now blooming with red. "Shit." She cursed, and leaned back in the chair. She sat for a few moments, her teeth clenched with pain as she looked at Edward through narrowed eyes. "Hah, you is lucky to be alive Kenway." She whispered, a crooked, weary grin on her lips. "Why is it that I'm risking my hide to save your sorry arse, eh? You 'ave done nothin' but prance about in them robes an' be a pain in mah arse since yah showed up with em' on." she said, and the small grin that split her lips disappeared as fast as it came.

Mary curled over in her chair, gasping as a wild rush of feelings unlike anything she'd ever felt before stole her breath and left her empty and scared. She squeezed her eyes shut, one hand clutching her injured shoulder, as the other braced her body against the bedframe. Her weary, weathered body trembled, the tips of her sable brown hair brushed the old, salty linens of the bed, and for the first time in a long time she felt something that would never belong to, or be permitted by the pirate James Kidd. She felt scared; she felt a fear not borne from her own self-preservation, but from the well being of another. Simply, for the first time in a long time, someone mattered; someone –not a creed or code, or any other promise of words – had done something to make her care, and that was the scariest thing of all.

It was wrong, and she knew better, the brotherhood preached it and even better still Mary could claim experience. At the end of the day those who cared lost everything, those who cared – no matter their strength or determination – are beat up, thrown down, and forced to watch as everything that ever mattered to them, everything they had ever loved was torn away from them. At the end of the day, those who cared finished last.

So why was it that there was something about the thought of his dead, cold body resting at the bottom of the sea that scared her stiff? Why is it that the thought of not getting there in time, and knowing she could have saved him that made her sick to her stomach?

Edward Kenway was a selfish, bratty, no-good thieving bastard who thought only of the treasure to be had. So why did she save him?

Mary closed her itchy red eyes, and ignored the phantom feeling of tears and the hand that seemed to close around her throat. She had figured out what was going to happen quite quickly, that the British would seek Blackbeard out. Even if he had taken the pardon, the captain of the Queen Ann's revenge was not a prize that the lions of England were willing to let go. The morbid thought had first dawned on her near Havana, just a day or two after she had chewed Edward out for being as greedy as he was. She remembered thinking that if he died, that if he did something stupid (as Kenways were wont to do) and he passed on that the last thing she would have done was ask if nothing but the stink of riches wrinkled his nose.

She smirked, but it looked out of place and bitter. Now what kind of goodbye would that of been?

She had turned around, and sailed after his sorry ass on high winds just in time to see him be knocked into the drink by some burly looking British privateer. She had shot the man in red, and then jumped into the storming sea after Edward before the privateer even realized he'd been shot. Edward was out cold when she'd grabbed him from the currents under the Man O' War, and hauled him to the surface. She had stopped and was trying to see if she could find Thatch as well, hanging onto stupid hope when the captain of the brig put on through her shoulder. She hadn't even noticed the wound until she was bleeding out on the deck of the Jackdaw, bellowing orders over the chaos to his muddled crew with a pool of sticky red blood at her feet.

Her shoulder burned even now just thinking on it, but she didn't have the energy to even curse. She felt like she had failed, she felt the weight of a dead man on her shoulders. "If only Thatch was as lucky as you Kenway… If I 'ad been a bit quicker, maybe I coulda' saved 'im too." She sighed, closed her tired eyes and cleared her mind. Dwelling on her failures would do her no good now; she would discuss it with Ah Tabai when she returned to Tulum later, but for now it was best not to think on it.

Mary rested for a rare moment, listening to the steady breathing of the blond captain, as the boat rocked gently, like a cradle. With a sigh, she opened her eyes and stood up, a hand grasped lightly around her shoulder. "Oh well, ah guess ah'd best go find your quartermaster eh' Kenway?" She asked, and stood up from her seat. She looked out towards the big white manor on the hill with a longing gaze. "It's high time to get you home."


	3. Chapter 3

Hi Guys!

OMG! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE AWSOME REVIEWS AND FEEDBACK! I feel super evil for that Beta post, so I made this chapter a WHOPPING 5,000 WORDS! Wha? Ya, I did that.

Anyway I just wanted to thank Jlovesallfandoms for being my Quartermaster for this chapter! Thank you!

I also wanna thank

Shadow-runner-100

BirdSpell and

John Kelsper

For their AMAZING reviews! Thank you guys for putting in a little extra somethin' somethin', it really made my day.

Thank you to everyone else who reviewed as well!

OH AND NOTE! I have taken liberties and altered the timeline (only at most in certain places byabout 5 years) to fit my needs, so it doesn't necessarily follow the canon timeline. Except for thatchs death, that was November 22, 1718 so that's why the sytory starts here.

I really wanna shoot for 30 reviews before the next chapter, think we can do that?

Without further adieu, here is chapter 3!

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_December, 1718. Great Iguana, Bahamas._

His consciousness returned slowly, spotty, one droplet at a time like an old leaky faucet. Edward groaned, his head felt hot and heavy like that time in Nassau he had taken one too many bottles of rum in a drinking match against Thatch.

_Thatch…_

As if someone had opened a floodgate, memories suddenly poured into his mind like the heavy spring rains after a dry spell. Everything came back to him at once; every nauseating little detail filled his head to the brim.

_Thatch, his 'retirement' party… there was a shady man, a Templar associate…_

Drinks and merriment alike were exchanged; Thatch wasn't going back and though he didn't agree Edward respected his decision. Thatch had perhaps sweetened his mind with knowledge on the _Princess_, a step closer to the sage. A bottle of rum, fresh off a boat already heading to it's next stop in the triangle trade was shoved at him and he was about ready to take a swig when he noticed something. There was a man, rat-like in both looks and actions that was pushing his way through the crowd, trying to make a hasty escape.

_The cannon fire…_

The stranger had set off a flare, burning brilliantly in shades of red and orange and then both he and his commander had retreated before Edward ever got a chance to say otherwise. Heavy shot rained down around him like hail, scattering debris and men like small insignificant pebbles in their wake.

_The British, they followed us… the Man O' War…_

His own _Jackdaw _had been gone from the port, but Blackbeard had been waiting for him with a familiar brig. Edward squinted through the raging storm, his hands numb as he captained the _Queen Ann's Revenge_ through the angry, frothing waves of the sea. Despite being a monster herself she was running laps around the massive Man O' War ship, returning twice the fire for every shot received from the fat, slow vessel. The British could not keep up, they were too sluggish, too stagnant in the water, and had taken one too many hits as a result. They were incapacitated, now was the time to strike.

_Too many men on board… Blackbeard… he was outnumbered…_

Blood was exchanged on both sides as swords flew about and some pistols fired blank in the rain, while others didn't. His own happened to be dry enough to still fire the rounds he had, but even those – much like Blackbeard's crew – were dwindling in numbers far too fast. For every allied man there seemed to be three or four Redcoats ready to knock him in the drink, and for all the ferocity and all the skill that Blackbeard's crew may have had, those odds were still too much.

Edward shouldered yet another Brit out of the way, and smashed him over the deck just in time to see the glint of a metal sword bite into Blackbeard's shoulder. The old salt looked astonished, like he couldn't quite believe that it was his own warm, red blood that was spilling down his shoulder before the disbelief melted into fear. He jerked around and looked at Edward, a great pirate brought to his knees, and cried out for him.

Edward watched the fear flash through Thatch's eyes, and as he shoved his blade into the gut of another enemy, he tossed the downed pirate his only pistol still loaded with shot. It was that moment, when their eyes met and Edward saw the fear, that he knew this was no longer a mission of conquest, the predator had turned prey, and at least one of them would not leave this brig alive.

Thatch caught the pistol with a practiced ease that came only with a lifetime of training, and shot the man that had made to cut him down. "In a world without gold-!" He bellowed, but as he staggered to his feet Edward saw only a dead man draw his sword for pirate's parley. "-We could have been heroes!" he swung wildly at a redcoat, missed, and was slashed across the back.

Everything was in slow motion, he faintly heard himself cry out to Thatch before watching, powerless as British hands cut down the infamous Blackbeard. Edward, frozen with disbelief, watched the feathers of Thatch's hat flutter slowly, softly until they hit the ground with a thud.

He didn't hear the brute charging up to him, he only felt the power of a bull plow into him and throw him to the sea. What he did hear as the blackness rushed to meet him was the roar of the ocean, the clash of swords, the ring of cannon fire, and someone calling his name.

"_KENWAY!"_

Edward groaned as his sick conscience forced him to recall the nature of Blackbeard's death. It all seemed like a dream, like someone's idea of a sadistic, macabre joke, but Edward knew it was real, he knew the sight, the smell, the feel of death and he knew that Thatch was no longer around.

_Huh_. He mused bitterly. _The world below it is Thatch, I'll see you there old friend_.

He gritted his teeth, and wrinkled his nose as his temples throbbed and the hot fog that swirled around inside his mind began to fade away. Something was burning it off, but what?

"Kenway."

His brow furrowed, and his face contorted into something of a snarl. Couldn't they see that he just wanted to be left the bloody hell alone? Thatch was dead! Thatch was dead and yet somehow he himself was denied the trip to Davy Jones's locker!

"Oi! Kenway!"

Edward suddenly registered the dull prod of something as it poked him in the ribs. It came again, and he weakly tried to curse whatever persistent idiot was bothering him.

He muttered something incoherent, surely something mixed with a curse and a yawn, hoping that they would get the message and leave him well enough alone. Perhaps even better, maybe they might bring him some rum and then leave so he could drink himself into a stupor. Alone.

Neither happened. Instead he heard an amused chuckle. "What was that Kenway? Ah couldn't hear ya'." He recognized the voice almost instantly, but it didn't make sense, and Edward waved it off as another sick jab by his subconscious mind.

He tried to ignore the man, truly, but his company was dogged and unrelenting with whatever blasted stick they had. He was poked again, and this time Edward pushed against the fog in his muddled mind and snapped his eyes open.

"I said-" he groaned, looking around through bleary eyes at a strange world of shapes and colors. "Fuck off." He blinked again, and the blobs suddenly took the shape of a room, clean and large and grand, like his room in the Manor. Another blink and Edward realized it was the manor, complete with the squall of seagulls and the noise of the ocean outside his window. "What in the name of-"

"Well that's no way to greet a friend now is it Kenway?"

Edward nearly grinned because he'd know that snarky, lilting tone anywhere. He snapped his head to the left to see James Kidd sitting, one leg pulled to her chest while the other dangled from the creamy cotton fabric of a massive chair. _No._ He reminded himself, a small smirk on his face as he noticed her long, dark sable hair was free and tossed carelessly over one shoulder. _James Kidd is out there commanding the crew, its Mary Read that is sitting here in front of me now._ Edward looked her up and down; his hazy blue gaze shamelessly raked her body. She was slender – even hidden beneath the heavy men's garb he could tell - but she was strong, powerful like a leopard with lean, wiry muscles forged by the salt and the sea. Her heavy captains coat was open, and from behind the slackened laces of her blouse something long and dark stood out. Edward thought it might be a necklace at first, but a closer look showed him not a lady's jewelry but a tattoo. There were two wings in full flight, both so broad that each crested a color bone, leering at him from between her perky cleavage.

Amused, Edward wondered how he hadn't known of Captain Kidd's wings earlier, but then again, he also hadn't known of Mary Read until scarcely a few months ago. He supposed that men would only know the secrets of James Kidd when she wanted them too, and he smirked. Because if James Kidd was clever then Mary Read was nothing short of devious, and suddenly it wasn't so hard to guess how she made fools of them all, masquerading about as a boy just past his teens. He continued on with his upward perusal until his gaze landed on her hand, or rather what was in it. There, resting loosely in her grip was a dirty switch of palm frond, and Mary looked far too pleased with herself to mean any good for him.

"Is this going to become a regular thing Mary?" He called, his voice scratchy and rough from disuse. She nearly looked startled by the sound of her real name, nearly, but she caught herself before her pulse even had the chance to quicken and Edward frowned slightly. He'd have her drop her guard one day, but maybe not today. "Because if it is, I'd rather you poked me with a bottle of rum." He chuckled. "Or maybe two?"

She snorted, and rolled her brown eyes at him. "I don' do specialized wake up calls Kenway." She said and sauntered over to his bedside with long, confident strides. Her footsteps were heavy on the floor, and Edward could think of little more than the chunk of boots on wood that sounded like a pirate.

_Yet._ Edward thought as he watched Mary through groggy, hooded eyes. _There is something different today. She seems almost, tired._ Hell, she probably was. He knew that even though it felt like he'd been dreaming for weeks his eyes were still heavy with sleep. He felt the bed sag under her weight, and sat up to face her. She was slouching. Edward had never, not even when he was sure she had downed more rum than Thatch, seen Captain Kidd sag, and look anything less than aware. Something strange stirred inside his gut, something he hadn't felt in such a long time that it was hard to put a name to it. He settled for calling it curiosity.

"Mary?" His voice was gruff and raspy; the words grated on and rattled the inside of his throat as if he hadn't spoken in weeks. Suddenly he wondered just how long he had been asleep, it felt as if it could have been a lifetime. "What happened Mary? Why am I here, in Iguana?"

She sighed, the action was drawn out and weary and it looked almost like she had to think, long and hard, about how to breathe. Her umber eyes found his stormy blues, and they sat there for a moment gazing at their own reflection in one another's eyes. "How abou' this Kenway. What d'you rememba?" she muttered, and returned her gaze to the wooden floor.

Edward thought for a moment. What did he remember?

(~Flashback~)

For just a split second his eyes closed and suddenly he was watching Thatch as he crashed down on British decks, and suddenly he was watching the red dressed dogs as they laughed and cheered as if they had just felled some great beast, and suddenly he's watching the darkness of the sea swallow him over and over again. Suddenly its black, the world was shrouded in a heavy black haze that was sleep but it wasn't quiet, not this time. There was a voice, rough and smooth at the same time, like crashing waves and the calm waters of a full moon all at once, talking to him. Actually, the voice was scolding him, and it sounded just like his mother after he had gotten in a scrap and scared the bejesus out of her.

"_You stupid bloke, you've nothin' but seawater sloshin' about in that head o' yours don'cha?"_

It was muffled, like there was cotton in his ears but even then Edward felt his heart flutter as he instantly recognized the snide tone. Immediately he shook his head, and mentally checked himself for thinking like a child. Through the fog he could see a rough silhouette emerging against the darkness. There was a man on a bed and another slouched in a chair that was drawn up next to his companion.

"_Why is it that ah'm risking my ass to save your sorry hide, eh Kenway?" _The person in the chair was small but broad, though he seemed to be hunched over in his chair. Edward could tell he was nursing an arm; the left one, while his right was pre-occupied with a small shot of what could only be rum.

"_Aye, ah just wanna know what makes ya tick man, what's goin' on in that daft head o' yours. I think ye 'ave got somethin' damn special about ya mate, but Jesus are ya wastin' it! Prancin' about like some claybrained ninny, fuckin' an drinkin' an not givin' the bloody time o' day for anythin' that don't sparkle like silver or jingle in yah pocket."_

Edward frowned in his haze of sleep, whoever was talking to him was speaking the truth, but he couldn't seem to get away from it here. He couldn't wake up. He couldn't go drown out his sorry greed or foolish antics with a bottle of piss that posed as rum. Edward hated that about himself, he hated his lack of drive for anything that wasn't gold, but he had never found a reason to change.

The silhouettes suddenly began to melt back into the haze, and Edward panicked slightly. He still didn't know who that man was.

"_Damn you. Damn you to the depths Kenway."_ They whispered, and the voice made something strange, like a tiny, smoldering flame, or a fluttering bird, rouse inside his gut. _"Maybe I 'ave got no more brain then a sea turtle." _The people were gone now, and the light was fast taking him away. _"But ya could do somethin' grand Edward. Somethin' right grand, ah can feel 't in mah bones."_

(Flashback ended)

Her boot to his shin is what brought him back to the land of the living. He had hoped, and the thought disturbed him, but he had hoped it would be her hand on his shoulder that would jostle him from sleep.

Mary was hunched over, her weight on one elbow as she watched him from the big white chair that he swore wasn't there a minute ago. "Ya done dreamin' yet Kenway? I didn' know a man could sleep like the dead an' still be tired afterward." Edward groaned, and sat up before bringing a hand up to wipe the sleep from his eyes. Mary sniggered, and strangely he found himself wanting to smirk, but he didn't. Instead he glared at her with sleepy, red eyes and sent her a peevish look. Her face changed in an instant, like she had just realized she was doing something horribly wrong and now she had that stony, solemn look again. "So, what d'you remember Kenway?"

"I saw a person, they were sitting by me." Edward began, his brows furrowed as he recalled what he had seen in that hazy world of sleep. "They called me a fool, said I was too caught up in gold and whores to do anything worth while. They were talking to me like an angry mum would to a child who didn't try at their schooling." He chuckled, but it was hollow and nervous. "Actually, it sounded a lot like you on one of your pissy rants Kidd." He smirked, expecting to get a rise out of the assassin, but her face was drawn tight, like he had just broached the unspeakable.

Her umber eyes bore into his own, willing him to believe her. "Aye. I'll bet ya saw a Kraken too Kenway. Forget about that, they is fever dreams the lot o' them." She shifted in her chair, and Edward realized that he was speaking to the Mary he'd seen back in Tulum. A Mary that was all stone faced and grim business who seemed too old for her age.

Edward frowned. _Jesus. _He thought. _I don't even know how old she is. _The thought unsettled him, for he was one of the few holy guards of her secrets, yet he did not even know her age.

"Now, stop pussyfootin' around man. Tell me wha'cha really saw."

She was looking him dead in the eye, and it took him a minute to figure out what she really wanted. He sighed heavily, because he had hoped that she wouldn't ask him this but now she had. He braced himself because he knew that she might not take the truth to well, no one would. Not when it was so hard to believe. Even when he saw it happen. "Blackbeard… Thatch… Thatch is-"

"Dead. I know." Edward recoiled a bit, because how did she know? "Tis a right shame, him bein' gone an' all. I remember tellin' him that all pirates carry with us a curse, we is doomed to sail the sea's until each one o' us draws his last breath. I guess it was true."

How did she know, and accept it so calmly? Suddenly the pieces were all sliding into place, and something strange and vile burned in the pit of Edwards belly. _She saved me. _He realized, confused and angry and hurt because why would she do that? Why would she travel all that way after the last thing he'd done was spit on her opinion and be nothing but a crass drunk to her.

Edward hung his head; his body tensed and refused to meet her eyes. "Damnit." He cursed and his jaw clenched. "Why Kidd? Why did you do it?"

"Do what Kenway?"

Anger coursed through his blood and Edward shoot to his feet, the covers from his bed lay ripped on the bed in his rage. "Don't fuckin' play stupid with me Kidd!" He snarled, eyes wild and blue like the storming sea. "Damn you to the depths Kidd! I don't need you watchin' after me, following me around like some fuckin' kid!"

"Jesus!" she growled, and stood. The chair screeched in protest as it was shoved roughly backwards. "What the bloody hell has gotten into ya man?" Her hazel eyes sparked, like striking flints, and a fire started buring in in her gaze.

A grin, sadistic and without mercy split the length of Edward's face. "What was it you said? Reality? Yes that sounds right." He goaded her and he knew it wasn't right but in the moment he was angry and confused and his pride had left him high and dry. He felt entitled to get it back, and if this was the way so be it.

"For God's sakes Kenway! Fine! I'm sorry I sailed all the way past the bloody gulf just to save your bloody hide! Clearly ya was doin' a fine job of keepin' yourself alive!" She snapped at him, but her words weren't laced with malice and the intent to hurt, not yet.

"I got some bloody news for you _young master Kidd_." The last part rolled of his tongue like venom, dark and purple and sickly. " You aint the goddamn savior of the seven bloody seas! I never needed anyone lookin' after me, and being an assassin certainly doesn't make me need you any more!"

Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he'd struck a nerve. His sneer curled and suddenly the rules were gone and he was blind with anger. "You watch yourself Kenway." Her voice was rough, coiled, and like a leopard held back only by some unseen handler. "Ye can throw yer tantrum, but don't insult the creed." Her eyes burned through him, and for a split second he nearly ceded to her, but she spoke again and the fire was back in his tummy. "Another thin', what kind o' man would I be if I let a friend, even a sorry bastard like you, drown when there was somethin' I coulda done about it?" She was provoking him, he could feel the spite leaking into her words and he felt high on the rush of their fight. "That's why I is an assassin man, to keep the folks who need to be alive, livin'. Even if that means savin' em from 'emselves."

The words came tumbling out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them. "Oh really? Well Mary, if you are so insistent about running around an' savin' all your mates, then why ain't Thatch alive? Aye?"

He might as well have slapped her. A slap would've done less damage than those words that left his mouth, poised to strike her where it hurt the most.

Mary froze; her eyes were wide with disbelief and the pain showed in the depths of her green brown orbs. Her body went rigid and for what seemed like forever neither of them breathed.

Edward felt his stomach drop to the ground, and immediately regretted his words. _Wait!_ He thought, startled by the blatant hurt in Mary's eyes. _No. I take it back! I didn't mean it!_ He hadn't just crossed the invisible line, he'd spit on it, stomped on it and trespassed into territory that by no means should ever be crossed regardless of the person. It was a bridge that was under no circumstances to be crossed, especially if this person was a comrade. _I didn't mean it._ Edward watched as Mary's whole face darkened, like she had slipped on a mask and closed herself off from the world.

It was what Edward didn't know that made it worse. He'd dumped salt in fresh, open wounds without knowing how much it would sting. Thatch had been important to her as well, he had respected the voice and values of James Kidd before anyone else had, back when she was just another green boy for the drunken pirates to bet on. Thatch had regarded her when all the pirates had more gold on her death by the morrow than on another day of life; He had believed in her and now he was gone.

Silently the red bandana came out, and in an instant Mary Read was gone and James Kidd was standing in front of him, still as cold as stone with dark brown eyes that chilled him to the bone. Edward took in her form with despair, his eyes wide with surprise as another tidal wave of guilt crashed through him.

_How?_ His eyes were glued to the bandaged shoulder that hid beneath her olive coat, she held it loosely against her stomach, and let the left sleeve of her coat drape over it as if she might better hide from prying eyes that way. His stomach clenched and Edward felt like he might be sick, he hadn't felt guilt like this in too long, so long, it was hitting him like cannon fire and he couldn't stand it. _What have you done you drunken fool?_

The slam of the manor door startled him, and the welts of self-loathing that had festered lay temporarily forgotten. Edward couldn't bring himself to go after her, and until he could learn to think true instead of through gold lenses, he thought it maybe was for the best if he stayed away from Mary for a while.

He watched her go from behind the windows of his home; his eyes followed her like a dog until she disappeared among the main market of Iguana. As soon as she was gone from sight his knees buckled, and he collapsed into the white cotton chair where Mary Read had sat moments before. He reached out blindly towards the nightstand he knew was to his left, and after rummaging for a few moments, mind all but numb to the world he withdrew his prize – a bottle of rum.

In an instant the cork was gone, dropped carelessly at his feet as the rum burned it's way down his throat. Edward downed nearly the entire bottle in one go, and watched the harbor with a far-away look in his eyes.

_Caw! Caw!_

A crow, massive and darker than any crow he'd ever seen came to rest on a branch just outside the window. He felt its beady blue eyes, dark and endless like the midnight sky boring into him and Edward could not shake the feeling that the bird was watching him. "What d'you want aye?" He called out, his voice bitter and morose. He was drunk on guilt before the alcohol ever hit his system. _Look at yerself Kenway. Talkin' to a crow. _He thought, a bitter smile stretched across his lips before the bottle came up again and he took another swig of rum. _You've neither sense nor memory left Kenway._ _You're nothing but an old fool who lusts for the pieces of eight he will never have. _

The big black crow with the beady eyes cawed at him, and took to the watched it sail over the bay and roost on the mast of a ship just slightly smaller than his own _Jackdaw_.

Edward grimaced, his head pounded from the alcohol and from the happenings of the days and as he took another swig he watched the crow from his white plush chair.

_I'm sorry Mary._

* * *

"Ah! bonne journée à vous jeune maître Kidd!" (_Ah! Good day to you young master Kidd!) _Mary nodded, and smirked lightly at the tall French men who rested easily against the salt licked railings of _The Sea Crow_, a charming grin on his face_._

They walked in sync towards the gangplank of her ship so that they met there, here on the boardwalk and him on the deck of the ship. " Bonjour." She returned, and grabbed the rigging with her good arm before hoisting herself on deck. "Comment allez-vous?"(_Hello. How are you?)_

The French man grinned at her as if he was some gentleman and not a pirate. "Ca va bien, merci." (_I'm doing well, thanks.)_ He immediately shivered, if not a bit dramatically. "But it is so cold here, I like it much better in the heat of Tulum, eh?" He jested, earning a small chuckle from Mary as the two walked toward the helm of the ship.

"Ye is in luck then Mister Prescott. We be headin' for Tulum now." Mary said, a small smirk graced her lips when the French man pouted, his hazel moustache drooping as he did.

"Oh, please Master Kidd, Mister Prescott is my father! Pascal. Pascal is my name, how many times must a lad hear it before it gets through all the saltwater in his brain?" Mary snickered, and then stepped up to the wheel of her ship.

She looked over her crew for a moment, counting her hand picked sailors and watching them as they busied themselves about the deck. Her brows furrowed, she felt like something – someone was missing. A voice, traitorous by nature whispered _Kenway_ in her ear and she immediately recoiled as if she'd been struck.

"How now young Master Kidd?" Pascal asked, his blue grey eyes shining as he stood, ready to give the crew the go ahead.

Mary just watched the crew for a moment, her eyes hard, good mood soiled, and her shoulder throbbing lightly. "Make for Tulum." She said, but before Pascal had the chance to repeat her orders Mary took it into her own hands. "Aye! Weigh anchor now lads, I want full sail to Tulum! C'mon, handsomely now men!" She called out, her voice bold and strong as it sailed over the ship.

She stepped back, and returned to the wheel of her ship to watch the crew through dead eyes. She flinched when she felt a hand on her uninjured shoulder and glanced over to see Pascal shooting her a worried gaze.

"Giving orders to the crew, that is usually my job eh?" he joked, but when her jaw stayed put and her mouth was still taut he sighed. " Young Master Kidd, I fear you do not know when to stop, a boy must rest eventually." He said.

Mary rested her good arm on the wheel, and kept her eyes trained forward with a bitter smile on her face. "Aye, Pascal. But ah can sleep when 'm dead. Now ah need to go see mentor, I've been distracted from mah assassin duties for too long now." She could feel Pascal's gaze boring into the back of her head, willing her to say what was left, to get it out now. A lump suddenly formed in the pit of her throat, and Mary fought to keep it down so she might speak easily. "I could've saved 'im man. If I 'ad been just a bit quicker, he'd still be drinking himself into an early grave instead o' layin' in it." Her heart felt like it was in her throat, and when her eyes watered slightly she blamed it on the winds that skipped off the sea.

"You cannot save the world Kidd." Pascal said, his voice gentle yet strong. "If you expect that you are only setting yourself up for failure. A boy's place is as an assassin, he told me so yourself eh?" He talked to her like he did when they were aboard the _Cat of Havana_, before she even knew whom the assassin's were and she took some small comfort in his companionship. "Besides, at least a boy managed to save the greedy blond man! Although I don't know why a lad had us sail nearly the entire Caribbean just to do so, there are many drunk Welshman out there if that is your thing!"

"His name is Edward, Pascal. Edward Kenway." She said, her voice tight and tired and solemn, like the sea after a huge storm. "An' I'd like to know as much as you why we sailed the Caribbean just t' save 'im. Ah sure as hell don' know anymore."

Pascal hummed lightly for a moment at her side. "Well, a boy has said that there is something special in him. I guess we shall just 'ave to wait and see, Edward still has time to prove you are right." Pascal gave her a light pat on the back, but she still winced despite the gentleness of it. He gave her a look, not one of pity but something like it before he went off to manage the crew. He was a good Quartermaster, and perhaps an even better friend when he wasn't being a nosy French man.

A caw came from overhead, and the big black crow her ship was named for sailed down to rest on the banister behind her captain's wheel. Mary looked at the bird grimly, but her face softened as she did.

"Aye." She whispered, more to the crow than anything else. "Ah Tabai's been expectin' us now. Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4

Ahoy there readers!

First off, no this ship hasn't sunk at all! She's still floating strong.

But in all seriousness, I am so sorry for the week delay in this update, a lot of things have happened, I had a huge research paper due last Tuesday, then another essay Thursday, and I'm pretty sure I had a test in just about every class so one a day all week. On top of that, I suffered a bout of insomnia that – no kidding- had me up from about 10 am Sunday morning, till about 3pm Thursday afternoon. I started hallucinating around Wednesday to the point where my mom wanted to take me to the hospital but theres school.

On another note it was hard to direct my creative juices here because my dumbass of a friend took me to see Thor 2 on Sunday (didn't see avengers or Thor 1) and then Loki happened.

Again, I deeply apologize! Here, take this 6,000 word chapter as my sorrow! *throws paper at readers*

ALSO, PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK OF PASCAL AND THE NEW CHARACTER, I REALLY WOULD APPRECIATE FEEDBACK ON THEM!

Thank you to…

Magic meli – for giving me an awesome review

Razorbackmike- for another awesome review

And shadow-runner-100 – for perhaps the best review I've ever received.

And a special thanks to Cycian for doing all of Pascal's French translation for me! Merci!

* * *

Fighting Tops/Tops = Often inaccurately referred to as the "crows nest" (which was only found on whaling ships) It was a platform up on the mast above the yards. A.K.A. every time you went to board a ship and the objective said 'Kill the two marksmen dudes' and you had to go climb up and deal with their pesky assess, you're standing on the Fighting top.

29°C =85°F (sorry, like everyone who uses Celsius. My story stats tell me that nearly 2 thousand of my viewers hail from the land of strange measurements (America) so I'm going with Fareignheit.)

Belay Man – stop that, "belay that talk" would mean shut up.

deadlights= eyes

* * *

_January 1718, Tulum._

"_Says I old man your horse will die,_

_And we say so and we know so,_

_And if he dies we'll tan his hide,_

_Oh poor old man,"_

"Belay man." Mary hissed, her brow tight and furrowed and beaded with sweat under the hot Caribbean sun. The strong, swinging voices of the crew at work had floated up to her on a snatch of the trade winds, and for a brief moment Mary wondered just how many men the Hempen Halter would have to see before they'd all shut up.

"_And if he don't I'll ride him again,_

_And we say so and we know so,_

_And I'll ride him 'till the lord knows when,_

_Oh poor old man,"_

She wrinkled her nose up, felt the dry, salt-baked, sun-tanned skin pucker, and spat on the deck. "Jesus, there 'as got t' be what? A' least twenty score (or so) sea shanties that every man worth his salt knows, but ah swear its '_The Dead Horse' _every bloody time." She wiped a bit of sweat off her brow with the back of a red stained sleeve, and thought about how absurd it was for it to be nearly 85°F with trade winds well into December. The heat did nothing but bring her trouble; It meant the cannons had to be cleared and they'd have to stop for water more often, it meant that some men might get heatstroke and that her wound was probably weeping under week old bandages. To her right Pascal grunted and Mary regarded him with the tilt of her head and a peevish ochre glare.

Her quartermaster chuckled from where he lay, and he looked far too pleased with himself to mean her any good. "Quel est le problème jeune maître kidd?" He asked with a haughty grin stretched across his lips. "La météo n'est pas à votre goût?" (Is the weather not wonderful?)

"Oh piss off would 'ya?" she snarled, and yanked the cutlass from her belt before she sent it sailing through the strings of the hammock. Mary sneered at Pascal as he landed on the hot, salty deck, laughing at his own mistake.

"Ah, c'mon young master Kidd!" he called from his spot on the ground. "Lend a mate a hand, eh? A boy must know it was only in good fun." He thrust a calloused palm towards her, rough by the riggings and years at sea.

For a moment Mary ignored him, kept her gaze trained on the seas ahead because she refused to let him humiliate her in front of her crew – even if they weren't looking. A muffled _'s'il vous plaît'_ was all it took before she gave in. "A'right you ol' salt." She muttered before turning, and grabbing Pascal's outstretched palm with her good hand. With a small grunt she pulled the larger man to his feet, gave him a hearty punch to the shoulder, and then turned her attention back to the wheel. "There, 'appy now Mister Prescott?"

"Much." He replied, and from the sound she guessed he was probably dusting off his obnoxious blue blouse. "Now, tell a man again why a boy hates this song so? A man often forgets these things." He asked, and Mary glanced over her shoulder to scowl at him before answering.

"I tol' ya a hundred times before aye', an I'll not be doin' it again. Got it?" She said, and pinned Pascal with a hard gaze until he nodded. " 'S bad luck man. I tol' you that ah served in the cavalry for a time, back in Holland 'fore all of this pirating shite went down an' all." James Kidd thought of his pre-pirating times so little, that it was often hard for her to remember; So much so that Mary Read was surprised at the tales of her own history, scarcely five years old. "Them Sea shanties ain't just for decks an' shipmates aye', they is good fer just abou' any kind o' work that frees your feet from the ground. We sung all of em', ridin' about on our fancy, dancin' horses, 'cept for '_The Dead Horse'._" She caught herself gazing off into memories long past, memories of men and horses and somehow simpler times, and pulled back so that she might not get lost in them. She looked back at Pascal who was resting lazily against a deck rail, and offered a small grin. "Ye sung that one, an' your horse would be dead by mornin'. A' least, that's how the story goes."

"Cap'n!" A shout from the fighting top caught their attention, and Mary snapped her fiery golden gaze to the short, pudgy man on the platform.

"What the bloody hell is it now?" She barked, but before the short pudgy lookout could answer she was stalking toward bow of the ship with long, loaded strides that had her men parting like the red sea. She snatched the bowline from where it hung, taught from the foremast like fiddle strings, and leaned out over the open ocean, her feet planted firmly on the dark walnut bird that was the _Sea Crow's_ figurehead, as she perused the shallow bay through half squinted eyes.

"Off the starboard bow Cap'n Kidd!" The pudgy lookout – _Marquis is his name_. She reminded herself – gestured with the nubby remains of his pointer finger over the horizon, and Mary followed the line of sight. "Sail ho'!"

It wasn't until the _Sea Crow_, made slow by hot winter winds, rounded a steep shale cliff jutting straight from the sea that Mary saw what he was pointing at. A massive brig, perhaps even so large that its behemoth stature challenged that of the _Queen Ann's Revenge_, floated ominously in the too small harbor of Tulum. She did not recognize this man o' war, painted pitch black with it's hulking girth and extravagant sails. As they sailed closer to the beast that dwarfed her own ship by comparison Mary saw that painted just above where the Captain's quarters ought to be, in a coat of fresh gold paint was the name _Whydah_. Unsightly barnacles, a testament of time on pirate ships, were scarce where they should've been common around the brig of the ship, and if Mary didn't know the style to be older she would have thought the ship brand new.

Mary watched the monstrous black brig through intense hazel eyes, she gripped the rigging and took in every detail until the _Sea Crow_ finally managed to crawl past her larger sister in the sluggish waters of the bay, and only then did her gaze wander to yet another ship, barely smaller than her own.

_The Mary Anne._ Suddenly, like the gears of a freshly oiled clock all slipping into place, Mary understood. She growled, and glared at the _Whydah's_ flagship, as it was a schooner that she would begrudgingly recognize as a harbinger of trouble to herself no matter where she went.

"Jesus."

* * *

"Aye! Blow me down! Would ya' 'ave a look at what the surf dragged in lads?"

Mary was stooped over a wooden post with thick, rough coils of rope cable wound about her hand, trying to get the _Sea Crow_ moored when the devil himself, dressed in a too-big, too-new pair of dandy sharkskin boots came calling for her.

"Looky 'ere boys, it be the notorious Cap'n Kidd still alive an' breathin'! Blimey, an' all of us mates 'ad thought we might finally 'ave our fair go at the sea an' all her glory."

She could feel his leering form, too tall and broad, shadowed by a cackle of laughter that rose up from his company, towering over her and Mary snarled, her grip ghost white around the coils in her palm. _I swear if this halfwit don' knock it off I might just keelhaul 'im under his own shiny, new brig. _The idea, while inconceivably tempting, would probably get her into trouble with her mentor – a consequence she could not afford, being knee deep in hot water as she was – who for a reason she could not comprehend, wanted to keep the rapscallion alive. Mary scowled, and shoved the thick rope cable in her hands at Pascal who had paused in his work and was watching her with anticipation glinting in his grey-blue eyes. "Shut yer gob mate, an' finish mooring the ship aye?" She hissed, and ignored the sass from her cheeky quartermaster.

"J'en serais honoré, jeune Maître Kidd" (It would be an honor, young master kidd)

Mary got to her feet; her goldenrod eyes sparking like a live wire as she glared daggers at the pirate who was looking down at her with a grin that told her he was much too pleased with himself. Still, if looks could kill he'd be bleeding out cold on the boardwalk at her feet. "Ah'm insulted man, that the Prince o' Pirates would think me so feeble that Davy Jones woul' own mah soul yet. I may be green man, but ah recall sailin' against the likes of yourself an' winnin' more than once. " She spit at his feet, and when she looked back at the assassin there was a wicked grin stretched across his face, and a twinkle in his eye.

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be eh Kidd?" Samuel Bellamy laughed, deep and throaty and much too loud for him ever to be a good assassin (but somehow he still was) before he clapped her on the shoulder. "What's it been now? A year? Blimey lad, t' be honest I thought it t'was those damn British who had gotten yah, not the sea!" He chuckled again and his silky black hair, tied loosely with twine danced around behind his back. Samuel

Mary frowned, and her shoulder not weighted with Samuel's hand tingled in memory. "Well, they tried to get me, that's fer sure." She muttered, before shaking off recollection and looking at the man in front of her. Samuel Bellamy was just as tall as she'd remembered him to be, a dashing, gentle monster of a man at 6'3" who loved democracy on the high seas almost as much as he loved money and rich velvet clothes. His crew loved him, in fact it was the original crew of the _Mary Anne_ that had christened him the 'Robin Hood' of the seas. Bellamy, as if not imposing enough, also wore a – in her opinion ridiculous- long, deep-cuffed velvet coat, with knee breeches like a good English pirate, silken stockings and posh silver buckle shoes. All plundered of course. There was a sword slung casually across his left hip, and four large, gold-tooled pistols in a sash across his chest. He wore his hair down, and Mary reckoned it was just to spite the more seasoned pirates that wore powdered wigs and claimed it was 'fashion'. "An' jaysus man, don' get yer trousers in a twist aye?" Samuel scowled at her, and Mary – feeling a little more than pleased with herself – sent a haughty smirk his way. "Ah've been aroun'."

"Around?"

"Yes aroun'." She snapped before crossing her arms and fixing the self-dubbed 'Robin Hood' of pirates with a crippling glare. "Look Bellamy, if yah don't want t'know where ah 'ave been then great, ah didn't really wan' t' waste mah breath on your sorry ass anyway. 'Sides, Mentor want's to see me an' ah would rather not keep him waiting." She sidestepped the man in her path and made in the direction she knew her mentor would be, only to be stopped by a hand on her shoulder. Her bad shoulder.

Mary flinched, hard. Unbidden, a hiss of pain escaped her lips and she quickly bit her tongue to keep any more sounds painful protest quiet. " M'sorry James, didn't see you was a bit scratched up there." Samuel stooped slightly, and from the upset that appeared on his rugged features Mary could tell he'd seen the red blooming on her soiled yellow bandages. An anger surged through her body, she didn't want, didn't ask for, didn't need his or anyone else's pity. James Kidd would have never gotten that look.

"Bloody hell!" she cursed, and tried to ignore the stars that danced around her vision in favor of glaring at Samuel. "Some piss-poor excuse for an assassin you are man, mighty observant too! Ah don' seem to recall ever walkin' around with just one arm in me coat, not last year not bloody ever!" Thankfully, the baboon she called Samuel had only managed to pop one or two of Pascal's crudely done stitches, and the pain was fading – more like she was getting better at ignoring it – quickly now.

Samuel let his hand fall, but Mary could still feel his presence looming behind her back, silent and waiting and frustratingly calm. The two stood in silence for a moment, faces dappled with the few, rogue bits of sunlight that managed to break through the thick forest canopy. The Robin Hood of the Sea spoke first.

"C'mon now James." He said, his voice was somewhat shaken and quiet and nothing like the strong, tenacious tone that belonged to the young 'Prince of Pirates' Mary had doggedly harassed so many years ago. "Where 'ave you been man? What's 'appening with you? You 'avent checked back in n' nearly a year's time now, an' I think Ah Tabai might be gettin' suspicious." That last part hit her hard, because Samuel – despite their bickering and her likening him to the devil at times – would never lie to her, not about something like that.

_My own mentor suspects me of dishonoring the creed?_ Mary thought, suddenly somber. _He thinks that I've been running a muck out there, god damnit! _Her fists clenched, a ghostly white but she paid no heed to the stinging of her palms where dull, jagged nails bit into them.

"James." She could tell what he wanted to say instantly, the name was a ghost on his lips. _ Mary._ He'd never asked her, whether out of respect or insecurity she didn't know, but what she did know was Samuel Bellamy was one of the few familiar with Mary Read, a thought that at times made her weary and tense and a hundred kinds of stupid all at once.

Mary sighed, the sound was deep and heavy and labored, and she duly noted that she'd breathed a lot of weighty leaden breaths lately. "Nassau man, she's-"

"Gone. I know, I heard from one of our brothers who 'ad been out doing reconnaissance on some Templar activity." Samuel interrupted, his voice still quiet but now prodding for more because he was no fool. "Tis a pity, aye. But you should've known that Nassau was risky business James, she was better off as an idea than a country."

Mary ignored Sam's speech, she was not in the mood to be scolded like a child and Nassau was still a sore wound for her. But it was nothing like what she had to say next, for if Nassau was a wound, still sore and pink and raw, then Blackbeard was her bleeding heart, it made her tired and achy, angry and miserable, and like a child. "And Blackbeard-" Her voice suddenly cracked, and Mary struggled to keep from drowning in a sudden sea of grief, pain and heartache. . "Blackbeard he-"

Again, Samuel interjected. "Retired? I know abou' the Ol' Salt too James. But Blackbeard was gettin' on in years mate, he was old an' a man like him deserved to find a little peace an-"

Suddenly Mary was stuck back in the November gloom and her ten year old body, sad and choking on guilt, it was something she had smothered and stamped out for so long but now it was all rushing back to her and assassin or not, she was powerless to stop it. Her eyes burned with the threat of tears and her nose prickled and she realized she could not run away from the truth any longer, she had to stop and face it. Blackbeard was dead, and she could have saved him. "He's dead Samuel!" she snapped, face red and messy. "Thatch is dead man!" Samuel recoiled as if she had struck him, and through her bleary, itching eyes she saw his face age ten years, and lose ten shades of color all in the span of a second.

"No." He whispered and Mary cringed because if there was one thing she could not stand to hear, it was the noise of a man drowning in matters he had no control over. It was like the cry of a wounded animal, wild and reckless, but the pain did not come from flesh wounds, it came from the crippled heart.

She gave a shaky sigh. "I saw it with me own deadlights Bellamy. He 'ad taken the Royal Pardon, settled in Bath Town an' the Royal Navy –"

"What about the Royal Navy?" His tone was dangerous and desperate, and Mary was reminded of why Samuel was her Mentor's right-hand man. Underneath his good-humored, childish nature lurked something dark and evil, it was the same thing that crept about the caverns of her own soul and it was what made them lethal assassins.

"They followed 'im. Well maybe not 'im but they followed some bloody bastard an' they tracked 'im off the coast o' the Carolina's." She couldn't look him in the eye, and felt like ten kinds of coward when she couldn't tell him that it was her fault he was dead. "Bloody ol' fool, he didn't stand a chance." Suddenly she remembered bits and pieces of her anger, a bitterness from ten years past and the freshly opened wound of despair, both throbbed and so she latched onto the pain and made it into words. "Bilge-sucking British Bastards, they gave 'im no fucking quarter, not a lick o' respect. They cut 'im down like –"

"Enough James." Mary bit her tongue, disturbed by the cold, stony husk of a man who had joked with her barely an hour beforehand. "D'you know who did it? Who killed him?"

Mary hung her head out of shame. She was supposed to be a prodigy among prodigies, that was why Ah Tabai mentored her, and yet she couldn't manage to get a name or a face to match to the man who had killed Thatch. _No._ She realized, angst blooming in the pit of her stomach. _I was too busy with Edwa- Kenway. I was too busy saving Kenway's sorry arse to aid Thatch._ Mary fumed, and sharply berated herself for being blind and stupid and naïve, for saving a stupid pirate that she had seen something grand in. She questioned her judgment for the first time now, but the criticism was short lived, for her heart was not in it. Mary still believed in that golden something she saw in the selfish pirate who called himself Edward Kenway.

The soft crunch of sharkskin boots on the jungle floor, delicate and barely audible, reached her ears, and Mary knew that Samuel had taken her silence for what it was – No. Noiselessly she tailed after him, in a manner that was not unlike the way she had shadowed his hulking form around Spanish town nearly four years prior, and later down the very path they now trod.

The rest of the hike was carried out in silence, only the stifled mourning of a great man and the legend that he left behind could be seen, or heard, or felt. They were just another shade of black against the darkness of the shadows, shrouded in secrecy, noiseless, murky souls that lived with red stains upon their hearts and without the scent of human conscience on their skins. They lived only by the creed;

_Nothing is true; Everything is permitted._

* * *

"Your target is Simon Hatley, he is a suspected Templar associate who works for Woodes Rogers, who is – as you know- a prominent Templar. He is interloping in matters that do not concern him, and we believe that Rogers is using him to relay information about our coordinates to the Templar branch in Spain. As if we did not have enough problems trying to deal with the mess that Kenway caused, Torres is on the loose again and is most likely trying to direct his attention on securing the Sage while Rogers hunts us down and drives us out of here like rats."

Mary grit her teeth from where she knelt, her forehead was pressed to the Mayan stone and even through the starch, sweat dried fabric of her bandana she could feel the cobble's chill. "Yes Mentor." Mary said, parroting the consent she gave every time they met. He was punishing her right now, he had not asked where she had been or what she had been doing. No, it would have been too easy for him to grill her and tell her off right there and then in front of a whole council of assassins. He had to punish her, and so by going about their business like they had a hundred times before, he was leaving her to stew and fester in her own shame and self-denial. Mary would have rather felt the kiss of the Cat O'Nine Tails, than be left to the mercy of her own ravenous mind. "And where will if find Hatley, Mentor?"

Ah Tabai judged her smaller form through deep black eyes from his perch in the massive, rocky Mayan throne that served as his seat. "You should find him in Jamaica, he has retired there and now owns a large sugar plantation. I trust that will be enough for you to carry out this task." His tone was short and clipped, and inside Mary's mind ran rampant with the possibilities of what her Mentor was looking for as his eyes deadlocked with hers.

Mary stiffened, and fought to keep the eye contact as she rose to her feet. "Of course Mentor, I will see too it right away." She bowed to him at the hip, flat and submissive and so not Kidd-like but she had too. She turned, and with brisk, measured strides Mary made to leave before her Mentors voice stopped her.

"And James?" He called, stopping her cold in her tracks.

She turned and looked through cautious hazel eyes at the wizened leader of this Assassin's guild. "Yes Mentor?"

"I expect an update from you, before the moon has waxed and waned again you will have come and spoken with me. Is this clear?"

Mary nodded stiffly. That gave her two weeks to sail across the entire Caribbean to Jamaica, dispatch this guy Hatley, and return to report to him. Fantastic. "Of course Mentor. I will be on my way now." She bowed lowly once more, the burn of her hazel gaze never drifted from it's place on her mentor's dark black one, and she began to walk away.

"May the wind be with you James. Godspeed, and remember the creed."

She grit her teeth, and walked away, shadowed by a pair of ebony wings, darkness, and glinting, beady midnight eyes. Always shadowed, never without those wings.

* * *

_January, 1718. Great Inagua, Carribean._

He was already what? Must've been a good six bottles in at least. A hiccup jumped from his lips, causing Edward to laugh for no particular reason, drunk and giddy off ten years worth of fermenting yeast and seawater before he corrected himself. _Correction. That makes about five bottles too many._ He grinned at nothing and was well on his way to checking out piss poor drunk when Vane came crashing into the bar, spitting curses and kvetching like the upstate whores, as fresh and green as they were when they came tumbling back to their hovel homes in England. Edward felt the stupid grin, the one that loved his rum kissed lips so dearly, return once more to beam at nothing but the occasional passerby who crossed his blurring line of vision. He managed somehow to get off his drunken arse, and onto equally drunken legs that wobble and quake and Edward cannot for the life of him figure out why they don't seem to want to co-operate. _They feel like gelatin, c'mon man!_ Perhaps an even bigger miracle is how Edward manages to stumble over to where Vane is sitting, the older pirate already nursing a half downed bottle of beer, without causing at least one bar fight.

He hiccupped again, and half dragged, half pulled his disobedient body onto the bar stool beside Vane's. "Oi! Ahoy there Vane!" he called, only vaguely aware of exactly how loud he was and what exactly he was saying.

The older pirate barely spared him a sideways glance, but once he did Vane spat and chuckled. "Man, your bloody pissed aren't ya'?" he rasped, and laughed again when Edward made to snatch his tankard away. "Got three sheets to the wind already aye'? It's barely witching hour man, ah' well. For a pirate, you sure is a goddamned lightweight." Edward didn't have the conscience mind to scowl at Vane's insults, only to flinch when the man slammed his pewter cup on the table and demanded more. "Aye! C'mon you wenches, why the hell is my cup empty?"

"Ah quit yer bitchin' Mr. Vane, ah've got yer rum-piss right 'ere!" Edward barely had the strength, his muscles did not want to listen, but he forced his head up and saw Anne standing there and had nearly forgotten that she had come to Great Inauga a few months prior. Vane scowled as his mug was filled with the dark amber liquid, grumbling about one thing or another under his breath until he took a swig.

He blanched. "Fuck, yer right wench-"

"That's Anne to you, yer not even close to bein' sauced enough to be callin' me wench." She laughed and bells tinkled as she gave Edward a wink that told him this was some inside joke. If only he could remember.

Vane continued on. "This does taste like piss. Yer sure it's rum?" he asked and took another swig and felt his face go sour.

Anne laughed. "Aye' talk t' me afta' a few bottles of this 'ere an' I think you will find that this piss can get the job done." She turned around, ignoring to grubby brush of hands against her dress and after snatching up a stool sat down. Edward watched with half a conscious mind how she straddled the stool, and rested her head on the back quite the opposite of how any man would sit. He realized with some surprise, that Mary sat the exact same way.

_Why am I thinking about bloody Kidd? _Edward thought, and with a half-assed drunken anger he tried to beat the thought out of his traitorous mind, but found it would not leave.

"So, what are ye gripin' about over there, Vane?" Anne cooed and received spit on the floor and a flashing pair of red, dirty eyes in response. She spared the spit an brief, unimpressed glance before returning her gaze to Vane.

He snarled. "Bloody Frenchmen. Bastard 's the most annoyin' little shit that ever sailed the bloody ocean. The bilge-sucking dog thinks e' can just waltz on in an' fuckin' take my kill? Bugger that!"

Anne was laughing up a storm now, face bright red with tears poking at the corners of her eyes, and when little snorts escaped her in her merriment Edward joined in. "A'right Vane, who is this rascal ye' is talkin' about? I don' know of any French men on the waters, but if 'e can ruffle yer feathers then I'd like t' meet the lad."

Vane scowled, and took another sloppy chug from his rapidly draining tankard. Apparently, the piss was doing its job. "Ah'm out there, just off the coast of Trinidad an' I had me a real nice Spanish galleon I was fixin' to take." He laughed bitterly. "The bitch had sure put up one hell of a fight, an' I was makin' me last fire when bloody Kidd an' his stupid crow come sailing up, smash her bow and board the girl before I could do anythin' otherwise."

Vane continued talking, spewing nonsense like a hole in the brig spews seawater but the tale fell on deaf ears, for Edward was no longer listening. As if just the mentioning of her name could sober him, Edward's fuzzy brain had suddenly cleared and was working hard to process exactly what Vane was saying. _Kidd?_

"-an the little boy's piss-poor excuse for a quartermaster does nothin' but wink at me and talk shite while the rest of 'is sorry crew boards mah ship. '_Oi, nice day Charles?_' he says, '_Fancy seeing you here_!'. The bastard has the gall t' talk like a bloody Englishman." He finished, and spat on the ground only to receive the stink eye from Anne. It all went unnoticed by Edward, still lost in thought.

She whacked Vane with the towel in her hands, the action earned a loud crack from the towel and a curse from Vane, before adopting a warm, saucy grin. "Oh!" she drawled, eyes lighting up. "Yer talkin' about that foreign lad from James' crew aren't ya? He certainly is quite easy on the eyes, but 'e is nothin' like his captain now 'is he?" Anne tittered and took on a dreamy look. "Now there's a man I wouldn' min' ringin' my bell." Vane scowled.

"Oi! I thought you was Rackham's bitch? I don' think the Calico king would take kindly to you whorin' around lass." He teased and received another, much harder slap of the dishtowel this time.

"Oh bugger that! If Jack ain't aroun' I shoul' be able ta fancy who I please!" She stuck her nose up. "Besides, James is just-"

She didn't get the chance to finish. Instead Anne screamed and shielded herself as her two companions went crashing down to the floor in a mess of glass and rum and chaos.

Edward seethed, his blue eyes were a sparking storm of turmoil, as he pinned Vane to the driftwood boards beneath them. _Mary. _He thought, unknowingly deaf to the rest of the world while she occupied his thoughts. _He saw Mary, he knows where she is._ Vaguely he registered Anne's screaming behind him, but it all seemed so far away. He pressed further into the man who was thrashing like a stuck pig beneath him, squirming and trying to escape the fury incensed pirate who held him down. Edward growled. "Where is he?"

Vane's murky grey eyes simmered, burning with anger and ire, but paled in comparison to the crackling, electric burn of Edward's eyes. The older pirate struggled under his hold, "What the bloody hell are you talking about man?" Vane gasped.

Edward felt the fog roll into his head, filling it with the heat of anger and he did not resist. This man knew where Mary was, and he would find out. Edward unsheathed his hidden blade so that it slid out along the contours of Vane's neck. The man froze underneath him, aware that one wrong move, even a swallow would send the icy, biting blades right through his dirty, spattered man-flesh. " Where is James? Dammit Vane, where did you see Kidd?" Edward hissed, barely able to keep control over his fury fueled body.

Some sort of baffled, fearful disbelief flickered across Vane's face. "You mean Kidd? I told you, you crazy bastard –" at this Edward tightened his grip and pushed Vane further into the floor. " I told you that he snatched a galleon off of me near Trinidad! He left it there though an-"

"Where is he now Vane?" Edward snarled, and heard his heart pounding in his ears and felt the heat and only knew that he wanted to find Kidd. Nothing else.

"Wha'? His quartermaster mentioned somethin' about Jamaica but I don' know if-"

Edward didn't need to hear anything else. He frowned, stood, and dropped the older pirate without full thought. _What in devil's name is Mary doing in Jamaica? _He thought while his feet moved of their own account, and took him to the docks just outside and to the _Jackdaw._

Adéwalé seemed genuinely surprised to see him, but Edward paid his Quartermaster no mind and instead went straight to the helm. "Aye!" he called, and watched as his crew spilled from the bunks like rats. "Show a leg men! Weigh anchor, I want full sail boys!" His voice left no room for argument as it sailed out above the decks, and sent his crew scrambling for the rigging and sails. "C'mon now, smartly men! I want to make this quick!"

He heard Adéwalé parroting orders behind him, telling the crew to lower the flags and watch for that bank, he was a good quartermaster. Edward trained his burning blue gaze on the horizon, watching, willing himself to see Jamaica now. His stomach twisted, the sensation was strange but not unpleasant and the Jackdaw's captain wondered for a moment what it was. _What is this? Why the hell am I so worked up?_ He wondered, and briefly felt the lurch that told him the _Jackdaw_ was at last moving. _Why are we going so slow? Dammit, I know she can go faster!_ Edward felt his face twist into something undoubtedly unpleasant, and felt his stomach flutter and twist again.

"Where to Cap'n?" Adéwalé's deep voice came from behind him, and Edward let out a sigh he had not realized he'd been holding.

He offered his quartermaster a blue gaze, laced with confusion and apology for his rashness. "Jamaica, my friend."

The large, dark sailor stepped up next to him, and attempted to find what Edward had been looking at earlier. "Any particular reason why?" when he failed to answer Adéwalé frowned, and turned to him. "Edward, the crew is getting restless and if you continue on this path I fear-"

His voice was strange, whisper like and nothing he had ever heard before. "It's Kidd." Adéwalé immediately fell silent. "Vane told me that he had a run in with James, and that he might be going to Jamaica." The bold, brash drunken courage was quickly draining out of him, slipping through his fingers like sand so that Edward could not scrap together enough to look his quartermaster in the eyes. "I know it's not certain. But-" He drew a shaky breath, felt himself fighting the waves of emotion that washed over him and felt confused and flighty for the first time in a long time. "But, I've got to take this man. I can't leave it where I did, he didn't deserve that."

He felt Adéwalé's dark gaze boring into him, looking through him and Edward had the urge to shrink back from those deep, coal eyes. He felt a hand on his shoulder, large and warm and stable, and turned to see Adéwalé smiling at him with approval and something else, something that told him he understood shining on his lips. "Aye' I think the crew will understand." He said, at Edward felt him clap his shoulder a few more times. " There may be hope for you yet man, just maybe."

Edward felt the edges of his chapped lips twitch up, and as he tried to calm his racing heart he looked out over the sea and wondered just where she was, wondered with a doubting heart if she would receive his apology when he arrived. _What? Why am I so worried about what she thinks of me?_ He asked himself stupidly, and somewhere deep inside, somewhere true he heard that little voice, the one that no matter how much he vehemently denied it was always right, speak up.

_She matters now. Kidd's not a friend anymore, never will be and you know it._

* * *

AGAIN, PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK OF PASCAL AND SAMUEL BELLAMY(he is actually a real pirate, quite famous too – go look him up – I'm not sure why AC4 didn't include him but whatever, my gain) I REALLY WOULD APPRECIATE FEEDBACK ON THEM!

i apologize if this isn't the usual quality, i was mostly just trying to get it out in time to assure you guys that i wanst dead.

Thanks! and please R&R


	5. Chapter 5

Hi guys.

So normally I don't even bother to say why it took me so long, because they are always taken as 'just another excuse' but this time I feel justified in my answer. I was destracted as all of you were, by the holidays and festivities and family and such. But that was not was de-railed me. I found out, just before leaving for break that a friend of mine has cancer, a growth in her lungs. That's why this took me so long.

I hope you guys understand and please enjoy this chapter!

THANK YOU TO Assassin's Grrrl FOR BETA-ING THIS CHAPTER!

* * *

_There are many stories that pass from mouth to mind of the seafaring man, many stories that come from many places just as the men who tell them. Some hail from Spain, others from England, a rare few journey all the way from Africa and breach the sea that would not otherwise hear them, and some come from the natives in the new land called America._

_Did her favorite story come from one of these lands? No. Her favorite story hailed from the lips of an assassin, who in turn had hailed from a land (one she could never hope to see anywhere but her dreams) called Egypt._

_It was the story of the Dawn Treader. _

_She had only just joined the guild and was already a prodigy among peers all many years her senior. She was a lithe and skinny little thing, and as a boy she would claim to be (on a good day) thirteen, yet the girl inside had seen five and ten years on this earth. She was surprisingly strong for someone her age, fierce as a wolverine, and where her stamina lacked (and lack it did) she made up for it in leaps and bounds with speed. Still, her greatest weapon was not her deceptive appearance, however great the advantage that granted her, but her mind. Her mind was a honed, sharp sword, almost as quick as the tongue which had oft times earned her the name 'silver tongue'. _

_She remembered having done well that day, not particularly what it was she had done well at – she tries not to recall the specifics – but that she had done well, and so Ah Tabai had released her to the island's only tavern to seek what happiness she could. Whether it be from the taste of music or rum or whores, it mattered not, as there was not much happiness to be found in the life of an assassin. _

_She had pestered a man, who by rights had pestered her first, asking and prodding as to what such a child was doing in the company of assassins. She was not flustered, no, but Ah Tabai had forbade her from snapping, from being anything short of stone, from defending herself in such a way with words like liquid fire, and she would not go against his word for the grand master of the Assassin Order had eyes and ears everywhere. He would be sure to hear, and would be sure to see to it that she be punished properly._

_For any brother of the Assassins, 'punishment' described something along the lines of taking a mission that nobody else wanted, or rather a lot of them. Though for one such as herself, who had not yet passed her rights of initiation and thus was no brother yet, punishment translated into something closer to torture. If you were not yet a brother in the creed, you might as well have been a slave, and she had the torn, ugly scars of an impudent lad past to prove it. _

_So she, in her haste to provide the means to her pestering, had blurted the first thing that came to mind. "How does it rise?" she struggled not to stumble on the words, and to keep the flush of embarrassment from staining her cheeks pink and her pride black. "The sun?" _

_The man fixed her with a strange and questioning look, but his eyes twinkled and so she supposed that maybe her foolishness had amused him. Although, she did not know if such a question was foolish to ask, as she had not had any sort of proper schooling since she was barely five years old. _

"_The sun?" He asked and took another drink of rum._

_She wrinkled her nose a bit. "Yes. The sun."_

_The man –who's name she did not yet know- had leaned close in to her, with a frightening, almost electric grin and the smell of blood and rum thick on his breath. _

" _In Egypt – this is the land from whence I came – we have a story about the sun and how it rises every morning and slips to the shadows every night. It is said, that the sun god, Ra, travels each day across the sky in his sun boat, the Dawn Treader." He takes another swig of rum, swirls the remains about his glass with a vague interest, and then clinks it down. "It is a cycle though, a daily rebirth. Each day dawn sees the rise of the newborn sun god in his massive vessel, and each afternoon welcomed him as man, mature and strong. By sunset he is old again, ready for death and thus begins his journey through the underworld where he will emerge by morning as a babe once more. The dawn is a celebration, child, it heralds the return, the victory of life over the forces of death and darkness. It celebrates the return of Ra and his Dawn Treader every new morning." He finishes off the rum, regards the glass once more before in turn regarding her. "That is how the sun rises."_

_She sat; slack jawed with a hand curled loosely around her own untouched bottle of rum because she had not expected him to actually have an answer for her. She sat there, in the haze of her mind where she is captain bestride this great Dawn Treader, until she was drawn out by the barely there scrape of his stool across the driftwood floor. _

"_Wait!" She called, the words slipping from her tongue without consent._

_The man halted, old grizzled hands still on his hood, and grinned at her from the shadows of his coat. He did not speak, only raised a single eyebrow, and Mary heard the soft hiss of metal as his hidden blade slide slowly from its sheath. A warning shot._

_She swallowed, but was not afraid. "What is your name?" _

_It was a bold question, considering it was taboo to ask another assassin of their name. Or rather, to expect them to answer honestly and without the aid of metal. A name was more often than not, all these men had to them. Nothing more nothing less._

_So when he answered her in his gruff, sand scratched voice she was nothing short of surprised. "Haytham." He barked and turned to face her full. "My name is Haytham lass. Young Eagle, in the language of my home."_

_She recoiled violently, almost as if struck and hissed at the insinuation-however correct it may have been. "I'm no lass!" she snarled, although she knew she was not fooling anyone, at least not him._

_The man – Haytham – smirked at her and she read a thousand year of history on his dry and cracking lips. "Of course. You are no lass, there is a curiosity in you – a stubbornness too- I think is only born of whippings and the kind of bastardly company that only boys scrounge up." He chuckled and she took the time to school her face because she would not react to __**that**__ word. "You are no lass. No. If I am an eagle, then you are a ġurāb." She frowned at him, unfamiliar with the word and he countered with a strange, off smile. "Do not take that as a tiding of ill will, ġurāb, as your kind are shape shifters are they not?" And the way his deep yellow eyes twinkled in the darkness did remind her of an eagle, or a snake but snakes had eyes that did not twinkle even in the sun. "So know that the fates may change ġurāb, and you may yet become something more than the eagle ever was."_

_And then he was gone._

_And she was left with the story of the sun and a cryptic message._

* * *

The Dawn Treader comes on the wings of a crow that ghosts through the sky unseen, on the sails of a ship that slithers through the dark, inky shadows that are cast upon the harbor. There are no stars that glitter on the murky waters of Cagaway bay, only shadows and a single sly ship.

Though Ra is brought from the underworld, riding on the black, black wings of a dark, dark crow, who's feather's whisper of dark evil things and the witching hour, the dawn that comes with him paints the sky in smears of reds and yellows and pinks that sing and make the crow itch for the shadows that it lurks so comfortably in.

The darkness, those smothering shadows that made her comfortable also made her bold, and Mary had been bold in a place where she could be seen and for this she paid. The light that came with the dawn does not cloak her actions, and she cannot hide everything she does in shadows that are scattered far and few beneath the sun.

She'd fouled up her chance at Hatley, who had been waddling about the docks like the fat duck he might eat for dinner if she couldn't get her shit together and dispatch him before sundown. He'd been perusing the harbor, taking account of ships that she is positive he has probably never seen, and for whatever reason he was out it matters not because he was vulnerable. But she had messed up.

That was the understatement of the century.

She'd royally fucked up.

Mary wondered for a moment why it was that Ah Tabai had sent her to get rid of Hatley, for if memory served her well, and it always had (maybe a little too well) then the Maroon faction of the Caribbean Assassin's was located in Port Royal, Jamaica. Precisely where Hatley had decided to set up shop and carry out the rest of his lazy, Templar funded days, living off of the broken backs and mangled fingers of the slaves who toiled for him. For a moment Mary drifted, and suddenly she saw Adéwalé, broken beat and whipped like some asinine bull, and the thought sickened her, almost to a degree, which frightened her. She had never been fond of the slave trade, yes, and she had come to understand that Adéwalé was a grand man who thought clearly and brought his actions to be judged in the court of heart and mind before he entertained them. Even still, the gross, angry helplessness that the whole idea of slaves brought gnawing in her stomach was no welcome sentiment and she would do well to banish it soon.

Obviously Hatley had power, and while he was certainly no Julien du Casse it was power nonetheless, and such things often brought about thieves and traitors, and assassins. He had power that he would no doubt abuse and use to become grotesquely wealthy, and after he had garnered enough coin upon which to rest his meaty laurels, it would be on to bigger and better things. Mary liked to think that this was where all the piggish Templars traced their roots back too, that they all were slave driving monopolizing brutes who lived and drew pleasure at the expense of others but in her heart of hearts she knew this to be false. That those thoughts belonged to the naïve girl, hardly an adult, who still fought and lived in a simple world of black and white. Her world was not black and white, it was quite colorful and what Hatley planned to do would lead to nothing short of the ground at his feet, smattered red with the blood of those who dared oppose him.

He would be dangerous, he wasn't truly a threat now but he would be soon, and the Assassin's were anything if not proactive so to Mary it made sense that an entire chapter of highly trained assassin's might be assigned to eliminate him before he could embrace his true potential. Yet, Ah Tabai did not send the Maroon faction after Simon Hatley, who would be draped and decorated with guards and militia and all sorts of hired protection. The man was not stupid; as she'd like to believe, and he knew as well as she did that he had a bounty to his head.

Her thoughts distracted her.

_So why in the name of Davey Jones did mentor send me?_

The carryout message at the end of the day would end up being that Hatley would have guards, and that she _could _not be stupid or inattentive or any other brand of foolery that might get her caught. Some how that message seemed to be lost on her. Thus, it should have come as no surprise to her when Hatley noticed her, crouched like a leopard in the branches of a tree, and squealed "Assassin!" like the pig he is. Yet still it did. Suddenly there had been some ten or twenty guards around her and no sign of Hatley, and Mary had only just managed to fight her way through the writhing mass of swords and guns and deadly metal before slipping away to lick what few wounds she had in the cover of the shadows. He would run, of that she was certain. He had wasted no time and beat a hasty retreat within the walls of the military fortress that called itself a plantation, but even so he would try and escape now that he was aware of her presence, and she could not let that happen. She would not fail

She could not fail.

Mary clenched her fists tightly, relishing in the sting of her nails as they bit into the calloused flesh of her palms and drew blood because she _deserved _it. She had been reckless and stupid and had not taken the care to focus on the task at hand. She was getting bold in her age, too confident, and in her line of work bold was synonymous with stupid, and for that matter with dead. She should have known that someone of Hatley's status, especially when regarding the Templars, would have had more guard and that he would have been looking for someone to kill him. That there was no way that she could have just waltzed in, and slit his throat and have been done with it.

That would have been too easy. It was never that easy, not for her at least.

But she was eighteen, and even for all of her smooth, sly trickery, even after nigh on three years of training from the Assassins and a lifetime of lessons beaten into her blood by a deplorable world she was still inherently brash, bold and a cocktail of other things that made her out to be nothing more than just another hot-shot, instinctive and acting upon whatever efficient plan she conjured up first – regardless of the consequences. And she was stupid, she realized. She was made stupid, blinded by anger, by loss, by grief, by a self-loathing born because _Damnit- she could have done something! She could have done something and he would not be rotting at the bottom of the sea right now._

She grinned an acrid, poisonous smile and thought bitterly that Kenway wasn't even here to jack up her kill this time. No. She'd screwed up more than enough on her own to account for his absence.

_Why are you even thinking about him?_ Startled, she realized that she was at it again. It was a sort of bad habit she'd seemed to pick up recently, though where exactly she didn't know. Nearly everything she did somehow ended up with him. _Kenway, Kenway, Kenway. He's nothing but trouble for you Mary, an' you know better!_ It was true. Such thoughts were – no matter the innocence – unforgivable among those in the Assassin's Order. One had to be willing to give themselves up - all of themselves - body and soul, to the creed and the cause and Mary knew this. She'd practically had it beaten into her for the last three years.

_So why won't I stop thinking about him?_

The crunch of dry dead leaves underfoot drew her attention, and Mary shoved the blame of Edward's constant presence off and onto her still-aching shoulder, told herself that the festering had made her delirious, so that she might shush the chatter of her nagging conscience. Inside she knew that the excuse was poor, and absolute rubbish. Mary had been graced with a silver tongue that could trick kings and queens and fool even a master of lies if need be, but she could not lie to herself. Still, the excuse would serve its purpose and allow her to think clearly. If only for a little while.

_Your goin' to need all the focus you can get. _She thought, and made to dart from the thicket where she crouched to the whispered safety of the shadows just across the way. But the sudden heavy thud of boots on the dirt paths and the clink of a musket forced her back into hiding. She snarled, and tracked with burning eyes the guards that kept her from getting to her ship.

There were four guards. Two very large guards, and two very small ones who were patrolling her particular area with the diligence of a bloodhound. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue for her, nothing more than child's play at best. But the six guard towers and four (she had stopped counting after that) alarm bells complicated her situation a bit. She could not give them any more reason to call for more troops, and seeing as she hadn't had the best of luck that day she could not risk being seen by some lucky sentinel. Not today.

But she also did not have the time to stealth her way back to the _Sea Crow_, for every minute she squandered trying to tip toe around the hundred or so hired-brutes that patrolled the area, was another knot of speed that Hatley's ship gained in his getaway. Mary did not know how fast his ship was, what kind of ship it was, how many he had, or if they were stronger than hers. She had failed to stalk Hatley and watch him and learn everything there was to know about him and now she paid for it. There were too many variables; too many chances for her mind to gather and she could not take that chance and let him get away. She feared that her hidden blades might be on the line if he did.

She had to act now.

And so she did. Mary bared her teeth at nothing in particular, lips curled back to reveal glinting canines as she reached behind her – quiet as a shadow – and drew the smooth, bamboo blowgun from her back. Her fingers rummaged for a moment in the pouch at her hip and from it she drew a tiny dart, fletched with red feathers and coated in a dank brown poison.

A small frown graced her face as Mary noted her dwindling supply of darts; she favored the weapon as it enabled her to be a truly silent killer, but due to the increasing attacks on Assassin bases their stores had dwindled and now she was limited to but a few on each mission. The frown twisted just as her focus did and suddenly it was a daring grin as Mary wet the tip of the dart with her tongue. The poison was unbearably bitter, and had she not built immunity to it many summers ago even the small amount on her tongue would have caused her to go mad with pain. She slipped the dart into the gun, picked the biggest, strongest looking brute she could find, took aim and fired.

She heard the cries of several guards go up, like the fracas of crows, and watched the man stumble. For a moment her breath caught and her blood thundered in her ears. If it killed him, she would be impossibly more screwed than she already was. It would do no good for him to die, as a dead body on the ground would give them all the reason they needed to squawk and ring the bells.

But the guard caught himself, and Mary's hawkish eyes followed his hand as he reached up and swatted at the poisonous dart in his neck as if it were no more than some harmless, nibbling gnat. The dart fell harmlessly into a thrush of sugarcane, but the damage was already done. She grinned and strapped the long, bamboo dart gun back into place, making sure it sat securely in its thong before looking back up.

"Oi mate! What's gotten on abou-"

She fought the urge to wince. _Ouch._ A man, not quite so hulking as the first, had approached the writhing form of his partner, hands on the pistol in his pocket rather than out in front where they should have been, and had gotten a nasty surprise for it. The first guard, no doubt already berserk with the poison from the dart, had stood up, roared all crazed like a bear, and rounded on his partner with the blunt end of his axe so hard that Mary was sure she could hear the man's skull crack from where she sat.

She certainly felt it. She'd been on the receiving end of the steely, unforgiving kiss of an axe enough times to feel some margin of pity, never mind how small, for that guard. He'd be more than lucky if he had most of his teeth, _or his life_ she thought offhandedly, by the time Ra had made another circuit in the sky.

Mary shook her head, clearing it and when more squawking guards rushed like so many mindless chickens to investigate the chaos, and all but one of the tower's sentry was more than content to turn their backs and sate their rising curiosity Mary saw an opening and took it. The blowgun came out again, this time loaded with a tiny, innocent blue fletched dart, soaked in enough poison to make an elephant lethargic. She wasted no time and shot the lone guard who was foolish enough to still march and search and retain some sense of occupational dignity. He fell from the tower like a sack of potatoes, and landed with such a sickening crack on the hard packed earth that Mary worried his fellow guards might have heard. A quick glance told her otherwise, that the men had neither seen nor heard their brother in arms. So, like the sly cats that freely roamed those jungles they were in, she crept over to a bush, prickly and nearest to where the guard fell, now no more than a boneless heap of flesh and blood, and snagged his body like a carcass before dragging it into the bush. Her blade slipped out from its hiding spot with a grated _chink_ before she shoved the warm smooth metal up between his ribs and twisted it around in one fluid motion. The body heaved, and when she withdrew her blade with a sickening _squelch _the warm rush of blood followed. She was almost certain that the fall had snapped his neck, but Mary would rather be safe than sorry and it never hurt to hide the evidence.

After sheathing her blade, Mary spared one last guarded glance back at the ruckus, her hands busied by the task of wiping what sticky blood she could off of them and onto her dirty breeches made stiff by the salt and sea. The guards – having no doubt come to the conclusion their brother was a lost cause- appeared to be making sport of the crazed man. She sniffed, and narrowed her eyes at them. The lack of drive, the sloth and laze that these men oozed made a mockery of the soldiers they were supposed to be. It baffled, and disgusted her. Although Mary could not live life without a purpose, and did not ever claim understand those who could, she was not so biased that un-driven individuals would repulse her –usually. What made her vision bleed red around the edges was the utter discord these men seemed to drive at. She had served in an army under a king at one point too, and this was not the way they went about doing it.

Mary, who was not about to give up her cover just to beat the baying hounds in the yard, simply wrinkled up her nose, and turned away, disappearing among the shadows once again.

* * *

When at last she had stealthed her way to the rocky cliffs, it could not have been more than an hour or two shy of high noon. The sun already sat in the sky, heavy, cast of molten gold and so glaringly hot that Mary scowled and cursed at it as she baked in the leather oven she called her jacket. Below her Port Royal buzzed with a certain claustrophobic business as people bustled about. Old women haggled for the early mornings catch at smelly fish stalls, whores dressed in a rainbow of colored silks danced and swayed at their posts, while others crooned and drooled over too-expensive beads from china and other similarly useless baubles. The first bar fights would come soon, the sailors who had brought those smelly fish to their equally smelly stalls would lead the day's conquests at the bar. The fat captain might be the first to pass out, drunk at noon. His best mate the first to throw his hard-earned pay at a whore and bed her before any of the usual crowd even came stumbling through the door. And finally the fisherman, their bloated empty bellies pumped full of cheap Jamaican rum would have the honor of starting the first bar fight of the day, firing poorly aimed punches and sloppy insults until one or the other passed out.

She had seen it all so many times before, like some monotonous, conducted orchestra, and knew that if she had not been taken up by Samuel then there was probably nothing she could have done to escape dancing in those silks as well. She tried not to think about her mother, as it hard as it was, who had told her just the very same. The life of a whore was no kind of life, not for her. Her mom had also told her she was horrible at dancing, well traditionally of course.

She smiled. _I can dance real well now Mum._ She thought. _I am a master in fact, a master at the dance of death. _

Mary smirked to herself, pleased with the analogy as she scaled the smooth and gnarled branches of a Copperwood tree. _Next time I see Bellamy I'll have to tell him he is quite the dancer._ She thought before turning her gaze to the bay so she might find her _Sea Crow._

She froze.

There was no familiar schooner sitting pretty in the harbor for her, no sassy call of "_How goes it young master Kidd?"_ from her equally sassy quartermaster, no hurrah from the drunken band of merry men she called her crew. No. There were only the calm still waters of the bay and a few boats that bobbed on its surface like bottles out at sea.

For a moment she just stood there, fingers grappled so tightly around the branch that her knuckles turned white. The roar of the Kingston market was dull to her ears and the hot muggy breeze struggled to make even the slightest whistle as it blew by. Mary heard neither the breeze nor the crowds, only the roar of embarrassment and treachery.

_He don't have that much saltwater in that empty skull o' his do he?_ She wondered, the feverish burn of incredulity slowly seeping through her ears as she looked out over the clear bay. After a moment nothing changed, and frustrated she squinted harder, as if that would change something, and by her side, her free hand flexed and fisted in a sorry attempt to quell some of her anger. Her jaw worked, grinding and wearing against her teeth so hard she would not have been surprised if one cracked.

_Caw! Caw!_

Her internal steaming was interrupted by the all too familiar caw of a crow overhead, and Mary, suddenly more interested in one crow than another, craned her neck against the harsh, beating sun to see the black bird preening on a branch not so far above her.

She didn't know what to think. _Why is it still here?_ She wondered watching as the bird pulled a disheveled feather from its brothers, and dropped it carelessly. It floated for a moment, blue-green's glinting in the sun, riding on the gentle tug and pull of a breeze off the sea before drifting just by her and Mary leaned out to catch it.

She stared long and hard at the feather, fingering the touch silky strands as she watched the light play off of it and turn the feather blue and green and purple all at once. The bird lived on her ship, all too ironically in the crow's nest, and she knew that if her ship were really gone then the bird would be as well. The edges of her mouth crept up as relief flooded through her body, and Mary slipped the feather beneath one of the bands in her hair. A new addition to the collection, that was all.

She turned to the crow, to say goodbye and thank you because she was allowed to be a little crazy, only when she did the bird squawked and took to the skies in a rush of feathers and beating wings. It looked as if it was fleeing.

Mary suddenly jerked, pulled from her musings when self-preservation screamed it's bloody head off at her and her body suddenly launched from the tree branch she was perching on. She crashed to the ground moments later, landing with catlike agility in the woody, damp underbrush only to tuck and roll, the whistle of grapeshot shrieking by her ears.

Her arms came up around her head, protecting it as she duly registered the thud of shrapnel against the same heavy coat she had been ready to tear up only moments before, only she was suddenly thankful for the way it shielded her from the burning shot. One bullet, aimed just right managed to tear through her coat and she felt the burning metal lick a trail of wildfire along her back before it too fell away. Mary hissed, and resisted the urge to reach back and touch the thin trail of blood, lest her head be the next victim of a lucky shot.

Another round of grapeshot tore through the jungle growth, but Mary jumped to her feet regardless. She wasn't in any immediate danger of direct hits, and that was going to have to do. Her hawkish eyes immediately scanned the horizon and within mere moments she zeroed in on the large marque ship that was tearing through the bay, a frothy foam bubbling around her base and wind fattening her sails. Her eyes narrowed, and she could see the white, cloudy smoke that hissed from the cannon's and gave away the owner of the fire.

She didn't not know the ship, has never seen it in her life.

If it were Nassau, the graze of cannon fire on shore would not be cause for anyone to bat an eyelash. But this was not Nassau, it was Port Royal under Spanish control and that was no Spanish ship. Mary's eyes widened and just as the thought that maybe her Sea Crow had something to do with this danced across her mind the sky went dark.

The sun disappeared from the sky, eclipsed by the heavy cloth sails of a ship as it barreled by her. She saw the crow again, watched as it settled down on the wooden cage of the crows nest before squawking at her and she grinned a brave and dangerous thing.

The bandana tightened around her forehead, eyes blazing like the sun above, and Mary charged forward through the jungle brush towards the edge of the cliff and the sea. Her feet left the ground, and she was flying.


End file.
